Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 (37 page)

 
          
“One-Three’s
moved out a little to get out of the shock barrier,” he said, “but he’s still
with us.”

 
          
“Signal
is moving to
ten o’clock
,”
the DSO said. “We’re getting some space between us, but he’s heading
perpendicular to our course. He’ll get a solid visual on us.”

 
          
“Mach
one point five.”

 
          
“If
he didn’t know who we were before, he can take a good guess now,” Canady said.

 
          
“One-Three’s
still with us.”

 
          
“Signal
almost abeam us now.”

 
          
Canady
looked out his left cockpit window. There, about ten miles off their left side,
was a large white transport-like aircraft with a big disk-like radome mounted
on top of its fuselage.

 
          
“I
can see it.
Ten o’clock
,”
Canady said. “It looks like an E-3 AW ACS. Can it be one of ours?”

 
          
“Look
at the tail,” the DSO said. “T-tail or conventional?” Canady had to strain to
see it as the
Excalibur
whisked past.

 
          
“T-tail,”
he said. “And . .. escorts. He’s got escorts, two fighters on his wings.”

 
          
“Russian
Mainstay
surveillance plane,” the DSO
said, his voice cracking. “Looks like a C-141 with a radome on top, right? It’s
the Russian version of our AWACS. It pulls double-duty as a tanker, too.”

 
          
“He’s
going to pull his double-duty right on our ass,” Canady said. “Nav, cleartext a
message over SATCOM. Tell them we have a Russian AWACS and two fighter escorts
behind us. Give our position and flight data and ask for instructions.”

           
“Already sent.”

           
“We can’t keep this up for long,
Colonel,” the copilot put in. “We’re behind on the fuel curve and we don’t have
authorization to cross the second fail-safe point. If we start a second orbit,
that
Mainstay
will catch up to us
with its fighters.”

 
          
Canady
unbuckled his oxygen mask and pounded his instrument panel in frustration.
“DSO, can you see those fighters behind us?”

 
          
“No.
All I see is the AWACS—but the fighters won’t need to turn on their radars to
find
us.
If the AW AC can see us it
can vector in the fighters better than the fighter pilots.”

 
          
“Can
you jam that AWACS’ radar?”

 
          
“At
this range, yes, barely.”

 
          
“If
we ducked down to low altitude, could he follow us?”

 
          
“The
Mainstay
has good look-down
capability,” the DSO said. “We might lose him if we combine jamming and a hard,
fast descent ...” “But then what?” the copilot interrupted. “We’re still an
hour from landfall and we’re still not authorized to cross the second fail-safe
point. He’s got two fighters to look for us, and the fighters have plenty of
fuel. We’re behind the fuel curve as it it is.”

           
“To hell with the fuel and the
second fail-safe point,” Canady said. “I won’t risk being caught or shot up by
those fighters. I’ll keep it at Mach one point five until we reach land, then
throttle back and hide in the terrain radar ground clutter.”

 
          
“Or
we can engage those fighters and the AWACS,” the radar nav said. Everyone else
grew quiet. He had voiced the unthinkable—attempt a dogfight with the Russian
fighters. The
Excaliburs
were the
first American strategic bombers to be fitted with air-to-air missiles—the
attack would be completely unexpected.

 
          
“If
we have to, we will,” Canady said. “Arm the
Scorpion
missiles, DSO. Let’s have them ready ...”

           
Canady looked out his left cockpit
window. Illuminated by the faint glow of the sun just below the horizon was a
Russian fighter, cruising directly cockpit-to-cockpit across from Canady, so
close to the
Excalibur
that the
Russian pilot and his back-seat weapons officer could clearly be seen. Canady
noted the red star on the MiG-31
Foxhound's
vertical stabilizer and the four air-to-air missiles slung under its wing.
Even traveling over a thousand miles per hour, the massive Russian fighter kept
up easily with the
Excalibur,
flying
in perfect side-by-side formation,

 
          
“A
MiG-31,” the copilot said. “Right beside us.” He turned and looked out his
right-side window. “The other one is off One-Three’s right wing.”

           
“Nav . . .”

           
“I’m sending it now,” the radar
navigator said, typing in a new uncoded emergency message into the satellite
communications terminal.

 
          
“They
got us,” Canady said quietly. Silence from the crew, which felt naked,
vulnerable. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. Their protective camouflage, their
weaponry, their terrain-following capability, even their speed was useless.

 
          
“Priority
messages from the B-ls, sir.” Jeff Hampton rushed into the Oval Office with a
long computer printout strip. At a stern glance from General Curtis,
Hampton
gave the message to him.

 
          
“Well,
General?” the President said irritably, taking a sip of coffee.

 
          
“First
message is a coded post-refueling message, sir. They completed their last
refueling successfully. Next message acknowledges the first failsafe order,
authorizing them to proceed to—”

 
          
The
President saw the color drain from Curtis’ face. “What is it?”

 
          
“Seven
minutes ago . . . oh, goddamn . . . two more messages transmitted in the
clear—they didn’t code them. First message indicates the formation was spotted
by a Russian
Mainstay
airborne
warning and control aircraft one hundred three miles north-north-west of
Point Barrow
,
Alaska
.”

 
          
“Spotted
by a
what
?”

 
          
“A
Russian radar plane.” Curtis walked over to a map of the Northern Hemisphere.
“Here—just a few miles away from the first orbit point. That
Mainstay
is a copy of our E-3A AW AC
surveillance plane. It can scan hundreds of miles around itself, track planes
at high or low altitude, vector fighters—”

 
          
“Did
the Russians actually
see
the B-ls?”

 
          
“They
. . . yes, visual sighting was made.” Curtis began to read the last message,
then reached out his hand and held onto the back of a chair.

 
          
“I
don’t believe it,” the President said. “General, you told me there wouldn’t be
any Russian planes within two thousand miles of that orbit point.”

 
          
“Mr.
President . . .”

 
          
“What?
There’s more?”

 
          
“Yes
sir, the . . .” General Curtis didn’t know if he could read it. “. . . the
Excaliburs
were intercepted by two Russian
MiG-31
Foxhound
fighters.”

 
          
“What!”

 
          
“.
. . shortly after being spotted.” Curtis’ face had turned even whiter. The
President dropped back into his leather seat.

 
          
“Did
the fighters attack?”

 
          
“No.”
Curtis looked again at the message. “This last report says the fighters were
shadowing the bombers. The B-ls tried to outrun them but couldn’t. Last
reported speed was Mach one point five, still four hundred miles from the
second fail-safe point. The fighters are still with them.” The President bent
over his desk. “General, how can those fighters be so far from
Asia
?”

           
“The
Mainstay
is a tanker, too,” Curtis said. “It can sustain two
fighters like that for five thousand miles.” He paused, then turned and walked
back to the President’s wide cherry desk.

 
          
“Sir,
there
has
to be a leak somewhere.
First, the timing of the attack on
Ice
Fortress,
then the attack on Dreamland, and now these B-ls being spotted so
fast. It can’t be coincidence—”

 
          
“Yes,
I agree, but that’s not the problem now. We’ve got two bombers up there headed
for
Russia
, and two fighters alongside them ready to blow them out of the sky.”

 
          
“Sir,
I’ve got an—”

 
          
“We
have to recall the bombers. Those fighters could take them out any time—”

 
          
“Yes,
sir, but if they were ordered to do so they would have done it already.”

 
          
“They
could be waiting for orders from
Moscow
.”

 
          
“That’s
possible, but Canady and Komanski, the commanders aboard those
Excaliburs,
are the best in the
business. They just won’t let the fighters take them out. The
Excaliburs
have the new
Scorpion
air-to-air missiles, advanced
jammers, and better camouflage, plus they’re just as fast as a
Foxhound
at high altitude and faster at
low altitude.”

 
          
“Curtis,”
the President said, shaking his head in disbelief, “you’re not suggesting that
the
Excaliburs
fight off those MiGs
and continue.”

           
“No, sir, but . . . they shouldn’t
be recalled, either.”

           
“For God’s sake, why?”

 
          
“Sir,
the objective is still the neutralization of that laser site—”

 
          
“Without
starting a war, may I remind you.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir. Like we agreed, limited resources, precision bombing, little or no
collateral damage. The B-ls are now essentially neutralized. They probably
could
escape the
Foxhounds,
but they wouldn’t have the fuel reserves to continue
their mission. Plus the Russian air defenses are alerted. All the Russians need
to do is draw a straight line from the bombers present position to Kavaznya and
look along that line to find two B-ls.” “So?”

 
          
“Sir,”
Curtis said, leaning toward the President, “there is only one aircraft in our
inventory more heavily armed, more capable, and more prepared to accomplish
this mission than even those two
Excaliburs
—the
Old Dog.”

           
“The Old . . . you mean that B-52
test airplane? The one that almost got blown up in
Nevada
?”

 
          
“The
Old Dog has more defensive weapons, more power, better range and better
countermeasures than the B-ls. That plane is manned by the experts that
designed all the gear aboard the
Excaliburs
.
And they have the best bombardier in the Strategic Air Command aboard.”

 
          
“Curtis,
that’s out of the damned question.” The President began to pace the office,
then abruptly, stopped and faced Curtis.

 
          
“How
the hell could a B-52 get in when two B-ls got caught?” Curtis took a deep
breath to hide his excitement. He didn’t want to blow this. “The Old Dog
wouldn’t go in the same way.” He walked over to the large map, found the
President had come along with him. “The Russian air defenses will be swarming
over the north area, waiting for more attackers—they’ll probably be expecting a
mass of bombers. General Elliott could pick his way in from the south—”